Feels Like Midnight
by happycabbage75
Summary: Dean's having a bad day and a worse night... again. Groundhog Day, Supernatural style.
1. Chapter 1

**Feels Like Midnight**

Dean's having a bad day and a worse night…

Disclaimer: Right, no one at Supernatural cares, but diplomacy demands… I'll be shamelessly using your creations for the next few chapters, but I promise to return them mostly unharmed directly afterward. Mostly.

* * *

Sam lowered his newspaper and eyed Dean over the top. "What are you looking at?"

"You couldn't have put the whammy on that thing?" Dean asked.

Sam just raised an eyebrow.

"Dude, it was trying to gnaw me in half and that's not enough to bring out the psychic smackdown?"

"I shot it," Sam answered, frowning. "Since when is that not good enough for you?"

"Look, all I'm saying," Dean replied, "is if you're going to be a psychic wonder we're going to have to work on your act."

"Great. Next time, I'll think first and shoot later. That work for you?" Sam sighed.

"That's the problem, too much thinking. Less thinking, more smiting," Dean nodded for emphasis.

They were both exhausted and Dean was indulging in his favorite pastime to let off some steam, Sam baiting. Sam was very kindly and patiently allowing it. It was a very useful trait in a younger brother.

They'd spent the better part of a week tracking an honest to goodness flesh eating zombie and had finally caught it only an hour earlier hiding in some old lady's shed. The pathetic thing was they'd saved the old biddy's life and she'd tried to have them picked up by the police for trespassing.

So they'd burnt down a small, _useless_ shed in the process. They'd at least had the decency to pretend like they were trying to put it out. But she'd still called the cops. That was gratitude for you… Sometimes helping people just didn't have the perks he wished it did.

Sam went back to reading the newspaper while Dean stretched where he sat in the booth and looked around at the diner. It was one of those old 50's train car style diners. He could see the short order cook hard at work in the back, throwing plates up in the window. A single waitress was walking behind the counter that ran the length of the restaurant. It was late, but despite that there was a decent crowd sitting on the stools, a few old farmer types talking to the middle-aged waitress who was keeping their coffee cups full.

The sun was just setting though it was past nine. Sunset came late this time of year. Dean couldn't say that he minded. They were in the middle of nowhere as usual and it was too easy for things to hide in the dark. Things like zombies that ate mean old women who yelled at you for stepping on their prize Zinnias. Stinking flowers.

Dean pushed his plate away, the sandwich only half-eaten. He wasn't really hungry. His back and leg were killing him, he'd wrenched his shoulder and he needed a shower. Worst of all, he could still smell that thing. He'd thought morning breath was bad? Corpse breath… now that was evil.

"You about ready to go?" Dean asked. "I'm beat."

Sam dropped the newspaper again and really looked at him this time. "You ok?"

Dean didn't like the way his brother was looking at him, like he'd just said something strange. "Sure. Why?"

Sam cast a quick glance at his half-eaten food. "Not hungry?"

"I ate some," Dean said defensively.

"You need an aspirin? That thing slammed you into that post pretty hard."

Dean waved Sam's concern away. "Enough with the mother hen routine. You're hovering."

Sam sighed heavily and set the paper aside. "Yeah, I'm ready to go." He caught the waitress' eye and made a scribbling motion with his hand to signal he'd like the check.

Dean huffed impatiently and scooted out of the booth, already pulling his wallet from his pocket on the way to the counter. "How much?" he asked as the woman tore their ticket from her pad.

"Where's the fire?" Sam said coming up to stand beside him.

Dean only shrugged, not really sure himself. It was like he had an itch he couldn't quite reach… Something just a touch off… He was probably just tired. Or maybe it was the memory of the zombie breathing in his face, its rotting breath wafting toward him as its teeth snapped at him, wanting nothing better than to take a nice big chunk out of him. Whatever it was, he wanted to go. He wanted away from this place. He didn't need to get far. Just a little distance.

"How far to the next town?" Dean asked the waitress as he handed her a twenty.

Flo, as he affectionately thought of the many middle-aged waitresses they came across, pointed west. "Only a couple miles. It's not much though."

"It have a motel?" _Please, please_ say yes, Dean begged, his back giving another twinge as he reached across the counter for his change.

"Sorry, sugar," Flo shook her head. "You'll have to go another 15 or so miles to find a motel. Up by the interstate."

"Right," Dean said. "Thanks."

"No problem, sugar. You come back now." Dean nodded absentmindedly, but the woman was already walking away, the ever-present coffeepot in hand, moving down the line of dwindling customers at the counter.

Sam held the door for him as he walked outside and he caught Sam looking at him worriedly. "Dude, stop looking at me like that, all right? I'm sore. Nothing a good night's sleep won't mend." He silently prayed it was the truth. Whenever he had to break down and go to a doctor, Sam started looking at him like Superman had just fallen out of the sky and plunked himself at his feet.

"You want me to drive?"

Dean fought down an angry retort. Sam would just brood if he did. Dean knew it was his own fault for ever teaching his brother to drive. It had made the boy uppity. "Nah, just grab the map, will ya? Find me the fastest way to the interstate."

The rumble of the car's engine as she came to life was better than a whole bottle of aspirin. That sound… music to soothe the savage zombie induced injuries, and Dean took a moment to lean back and enjoy the vibrations, an echo of his own beating heart.

"The waitress was right. It's a straight shot, 15 miles that way," Sam pointed, folding the map away.

"Thank you, trusty scout," Dean said, putting the car in gear and backing out onto the little two lane blacktop.

"You did not just call me Tonto." Sam raised an eyebrow. "That make you the Lone Ranger?"

"Why not? The Lone Ranger had the nice horse." Dean grinned as the engine roared, bringing the car up to full speed as she sailed down the road. "I've got the car. Makes me the Lone Ranger."

"Tonto had a good horse," Sam insisted.

"You know," Dean replied, "You're right. Tonto did have a good horse. And you don't even have a scooter. That makes you a _wannabe_ Tonto. There," Dean smiled, "Feel better?"

Sam gave him a self-satisfied grin of his own. "You do know that roughly translated Kemosabe means 'horse's ass,' don't you?"

"Tonto would never…" Dean's voice trailed away as he heard a sudden clicking noise coming from the back seat.

"It's the EMF," Sam said reaching over the seat and fumbling around in one of the bags.

"You left it on? Batteries don't grow on trees, dude," Dean scolded, then caught himself. "I did _not_ just say that. Sorry. I opened my mouth and Dad came out."

"I was gonna say," Sam laughed, clearly amused by the horrified look on his brother's face. He grabbed the EMF meter and settled back into his seat. "Pull over."

Dean did as he was asked, trying not to become angry as he watched the lights on the little thing dance like it was a Christmas tree. _Crap_. A motel, a shower, a good night's sleep. He wasn't asking for the moon here.

Sam leaned out his window and looked up. "No power lines," he said, half to himself. They both glanced around outside and Dean grimaced. It was a country road during high summer. There were no lights, no houses. There was just corn planted right up to the road on both sides of them forming a seemingly endless corridor stretching off into the darkness.

"You want to check it out?" Sam asked.

_Crap_. "No, not really," Dean said, already opening the car door.

Dean walked to the trunk and pulled Marigold out, checking to make sure she was still loaded with rock salt. Yes, he'd named his favorite shotgun Marigold. So what? Sidekicks got names. It was in the rules somewhere. Despite the Tonto remarks, Sam was a partner, not a sidekick. There was a definite difference. So he had Marigold. Most things they met were quite certain, however, that she was not a comic sidekick.

And no, Sam did not know. Like he needed Sam thinking he was any more off-base than he already did?

The gun was a reassuring weight in Dean's hand as he watched Sam move from one side of the road to the other with the EMF meter studying the readings. Dean looked toward the sky and noted the moon was almost full. It would give them some light, but he still pulled a pair of flashlights out of the trunk.

"That way," Sam pointed into the expanse of corn on their right.

Dean only nodded and waited for Sam to pull his own preferred handgun out of the trunk, then handed him one of the flashlights.

The moment they stepped into the corn, high enough even to be over Sam's head, it was like a hush fell over the world. The gentle shushing of the corn in the breeze was the only sound and even that made a shiver run up Dean's spine. They were idiots. They really should have waited for daylight, maybe done some research before charging to the rescue.

"High as an elephant's eye," Sam mumbled.

"Show tunes? You're quoting show tunes now?" Dean shook his head sadly. "I knew college was bad for you."

Dean heard a snicker come from Sam's direction and used his flashlight to blind him.

Sam batted the light away from his face. "Dean, I may have quoted it, but you recognized it. You fond of _Oklahoma_?"

"Shut up," he shone the light back toward the ground and began moving forward again. "I had a girlfriend who liked musicals."

"Suuuuuure," Sam said, falling into step again behind him.

They fell silent, moving forward, following the rows of corn, the only noises the corn surrounding them and the ever increasing, whining clicks of the EMF.

"Shut that thing off, Sam. We've got to be practically standing on top of it," Dean whispered. Almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth he took another step and fell flat on his face, his nose slamming into the dirt.

"Dean!" Sam knelt at his side. "Are you ok?"

Dean rolled over clumsily, almost crying out at the sudden pain radiating up from his ankle. He aimed his flashlight at the ground and swore. "Post hole," he grit his teeth. "Didn't see it."

"Yeah, I guessed that," Sam muttered. "It was kind of a clue when you tried to beat the dirt into submission with your face."

Dean gingerly touched his nose, his fingers coming away bloody. Just once he'd like to walk away from something without being permanently maimed. Why were there never any ghosts at the Ritz? Or in a nice health spa? Someplace tidy. No, they always had to find one that required dirt. He rubbed at his still stinging nose. Hard packed dirt. His lip was split too.

"Come on." Sam was still kneeling beside him, but held out his hand. "Let's get you out of here. We'll come back tomorr…."

Dean looked up at the suddenly arrested expression on Sam's face. One second, Sam was looking at him, the next his brother's feet were ripped out from under him and he was dragged backward, disappearing behind a curtain of corn.

"SAM!" Adrenaline poured into Dean's system and he surged to his feet, ignoring the shooting pain in his ankle.

"Sam, answer me!" He crashed through several rows of corn, shining his flashlight frantically in every direction. There was no sign of a trail and in only a few seconds he was completely turned around.

Dean ordered himself to calm his breathing. He needed to be able to listen and at the moment all he could hear was his own pounding heartbeat. To his left he heard a shot, quickly followed by two more. Shots from a handgun. Dean braced to run, favoring his bad ankle. "Come on, Sammy, tell me you got something."

Within seconds Dean broke into a small clearing and stopped dead, looking around. A tiny tract house sat in the center, surrounded on all sides by the tall corn, warm light coming from the windows. No more than ten feet from him, a small figure sat on the porch, a woman, gently backlit by the glow from inside the house.

"Ma'am, did you see…"

Dean had no time to react as she raised a shotgun and fired, point blank.

Time seemed to slow to a halt as he fell backward, landing hard on his back, his chest a mass of blood and gore. His head fell to the side and the growing pain in his chest became a raging agony as he saw Sam stretched out beside him. He looked into his brother's eyes, but Sam's were glossy, dead and staring. Dean barely noted the wounds, three shots to the chest, before his own vision began to fade.

Dean tried to raise his head to see the woman on the porch. She was closer now, coming down the steps toward them. Dean still had Marigold in hand and he ordered his arm into motion, fighting against the dying light as his eyesight failed. He distantly felt the crunch of his wrist as the woman who had shot him stepped on it, forcing him to release his grip on the gun.

"It's all your fault," the woman whispered. Or she might have screamed it for all Dean knew. He couldn't see, couldn't hear. "It's your fault he's dead."

Sam. Sam was dead. His fault. _His_ fault. Dead.

Dean felt what he thought was the woman kneeling beside him. Heard the distant report of a shotgun, felt something spatter against him, almost like rain and then the thud of a body falling next to him. Another body.

Dad. Dad would never know. He'd never find them. No proper burial. Nothing. Dean had imagined his death many times. But not like this. His fault. All his fault. _Sam_.

"Sorry, Sammy," Dean mumbled, his last breath fading into the chilly night air.

* * *

_Fear not, Gentle Reader, all shall be well tomorrow. That's code for don't get your undies in a bunch. I'll fix it. I like our boys too much to ever permanently kill them._

_P.S. - If you've never met Marigold before you might try my other story, 'Smells Like Trouble'._


	2. Chapter 2

**Feels Like Midnight**

Dean's having a bad day and a worse night… again.

_Thank you for the lovely reviews. A kind pat on the head is very helpful._

Disclamer: Still using them shamelessly with a promise to return them in a few chapters.

* * *

Dean gasped and pressed a hand against his chest. Holy crap, but it _hurt_. But it wasn't bleeding. That was a good thing. Wasn't it?

_Sam_. "SAM!"

Sam lowered his newspaper to look at Dean over the top. "What? Why are you looking at me like that?"

"Are you ok?" Dean frantically grabbed the newspaper away from his stunned brother and threw it on the table behind him so he could look the other man over.

The table behind him. "We're back in the diner!" Dean wanted to laugh, but he knew it would sound a little too close to hysteria for comfort.

"Dean, we haven't left yet," Sam said, eyeing him cautiously. Several of the other customers were eyeing them as well.

"We're back in the diner!" Dean said again, still unable to believe it. "I… We…" he gave in to the laughter and immediately regretted it. His chest was on fire. It hurt like a fresh wound trying to heal. The pain made him hunch forward, which caused another twinge in his back. Dean tensed against that too. Good grief, he was a mess.

"Dean, talk to me," Sam said and Dean nearly jumped. Instead of sitting across from him, Sam was now beside him in the booth, a hand against his back. "Dean!" He said it like he'd had to say it several times already. Dean blinked. Had he blacked out?

"Yeah, just give me a second," Dean rasped, the fingers of his hand still splayed across his chest.

"Talk to me, man. Tell me what's going on." Sam's voice was quiet, soothing. "You were fine a few minutes ago. A little sore after that thing threw you into the post. Do you need me to call an ambulance?"

Dean remained perfectly still and the pain receded to an almost bearable level. Dean's mind slowly began to clear and he raised his eyes to meet his brother's. "The house. The house in the clearing."

"You're not making sense," Sam said, as if trying to reason with a child. "We just got here. What house? The old lady lived in a trailer."

Dean looked around, taking in his surroundings. They were back in the old 50's train car style diner. He could see the short order cook hard at work in the back, throwing plates up in the window. Flo was walking behind the counter that ran the length of the restaurant and he could swear it was the same group of old farmer types sitting at the counter.

Dean looked out the front window and realized the sun was setting, a very dim speck of light just dying on the horizon. His eyes moved back to the table. His half-eaten sandwich was sitting on the plate in front of him.

"She killed us," Dean whispered, almost afraid to say it out loud. _She killed you, Sam_.

"What are you talking about?" Sam's voice rose in exasperation, and Dean looked at him again. _Sam didn't remember_. He didn't remember any of it. "Dean, I don't understand. And what happened to your face?"

"You're not hurt?" Dean put out his hand and just stopped himself before he set it against his brother's chest. Blood. There had been so much blood. But Sam was fine. Sam was alive. No wounds. Dean shut his eyes as relief washed over him. He'd messed up so badly, but maybe, just maybe he could make it right. He felt the sting of tears and immediately opened his eyes again. Dean realized he was still holding out his hand toward his brother. Embarrassed, he let it drop back to the table and yelped.

"What is the _matter_ with you?" Sam said angrily.

Dean looked down at his wrist, heavily bruised where the woman had stepped on it, grinding the bones into the dirt to force him to release Marigold. "I'm…" he took a shaky breath, "I'm fine. Let's get out of here."

"Yeah, ok," Sam looked at him warily. "But you're going to tell me what's going on. And I mean soon." He stood up from the booth and caught the waitress' eye, motioning that he wanted the check.

Dean huffed impatiently and scooted out of the booth, nearly toppling over as he tried to put weight on his ankle. He forced himself not to swear, gritting his teeth instead. They had to get out of here. He had to get Sam away from this place. _Now_.

Flo stepped out from behind the counter and walked over to them, handing Sam the check. He pulled a few bills from his pocket and gave them to her. "Keep the change."

"Is there a better way to get to the interstate than up this road?" Dean asked, trying to nonchalantly lean against the edge of the booth and take the weight off his ankle._ Please, please_ say yes, Dean begged silently.

"Sorry, sugar," she shook her head. "It's the only way."

"I was afraid of that," Dean muttered.

"Thank you, boys. You come back now." Dean looked at her sharply, but the woman was already walking away, the ever-present coffeepot in hand, moving down the line of dwindling customers at the counter.

Sam was watching him apprehensively as he held the door, so Dean walked outside, all the while trying to hide his limp. "Dude, stop looking at me like that, all right? I'm sore. Nothing a good night's sleep won't mend." In truth he used the moment to look Sam up and down. He seemed perfectly fine. Not a hair out of place. Well, no more so than normal.

Not that Dean was complaining, but why did Sam look right as rain while he felt like he'd been hit by a bus? He'd think he was completely delusional except for the fact that he could barely walk and his chest felt like it was in a vise.

"You want me to drive?" Sam asked carefully. His face said he was afraid Dean was delusional, too.

Dean actually considered the offer for a moment before throwing the idea out the window. "Get in the car, we need to talk."

Sam barely had the door shut before Dean put the car in gear and roared away from the diner, flinging rocks from the parking lot behind them.

"Now are you going to tell me what's going on?" Sam asked.

"Reach behind you and shut the EMF off. It's in the bag."

Sam gave him a dubious look, but reached into the back seat. Dean heard the click of the switch and then Sam returned to his seat, real alarm beginning to appear. "Dean, how did you know…"

"Cause you left it on last time," he answered, looking at his brother out of the corner of his eye.

"Last time?"

"Yeah, we did this once already. I drove, you left the EMF on. In about a quarter mile it will start making noise. Last time, we walked into the field to take a look. Something grabbed you and dragged you away. I followed to this little clearing with a little house. There was a chick sitting on the porch. Wham, bam, thank you, ma'am. She shot us."

"She _what_?" Sam's mouth was hanging open.

"She killed us. Both of us. You first, then me." Dean kept his tone matter-of-fact, even though he was so angry he could barely see straight. He focused on the road in front of him and the idea that he was driving Sam away from danger. That would have to be enough for now. He ordered himself to release his death grip on the steering wheel. "After she shot us, I'm pretty sure she blew her own head off, but I was almost gone by then."

Sam was still gaping, like he couldn't believe it. "So if we're dead, why are we here?"

Dean shook his head. "Good question. Something I'd really like the answer to myself. You're the brilliant one. Why don't you work on that."

"Are you serious?" Sam put a hand on Dean's forehead and Dean smacked it away.

"Dude, get away from me," he snapped. "She shot me, she didn't give me the flu."

"But… But, Dean, I don't remember any of this," Sam bit his lip, then nervously looked at Dean again. "You sure you didn't hit your head? That Zombie… I didn't think it hurt you that badly."

"One more time," Dean said, counting off on his fingers, "EMF, field, chick with shotgun, died, woke up back in diner." He waved his whole hand. "Really not hoping for a repeat."

"So what are we going to do about it?" Sam said, sitting back in the seat restlessly drumming his fingers against his leg.

"Get the heck outta Dodge."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning we go find a motel and hole up until daylight. I'm not going up against that thing again without doing some research. Dying doesn't agree with me." Dean felt beads of sweat forming on his brow and wiped a hand across his face. The sight of Sam's blank, dead eyes was etched in his mind. He would do whatever was necessary to keep that from happening again.

Sam suddenly looked out the window, frowned and then reached into the glove compartment. He pulled out a map and a tiny flashlight they kept in there just for that purpose. "Uhhh… I'm pretty sure we should have gone through a little town by now."

"Come again?"

"I looked at the map before we went into the diner." Sam's frown deepened as he studied the map. "There's a tiny town just down the road. I thought we'd have to go there to find something to eat."

"The waitress said it wasn't much," Dean offered.

"When did she say that?" Sam asked, glancing up from the map.

"Yesterday… or last time… whatever you want to call it."

"Well, there's not much and then there's disappeared. We should have gone through it by now."

Dean groaned. "Wonderful. Just wonderful."

They drove in silence for several more minutes, each watching the road, trying to see some difference in the countryside they were passing. Corn… just corn as far as the eye could see on either side. Even if they'd missed the little town they should have hit the interstate by now.

Finally Dean swore under his breath and pulled the car to a halt on the side of the road. "I know I'm going to regret this… but get the EMF."

Sam grabbed it and flipped the switch on. Immediately the car was filled with the whining clicks of the meter as it came to life. "If it makes you feel any better, I don't think you're crazy any more."

"Thanks, man. That means a whole lot," Dean sighed. "It gets me," he put a hand over his heart, "right here."

Dean shoved the car door open and used it to pull himself up and out of the seat, biting his lip as his ankle sent another screaming shot of agony to his brain. Sam walked back and forth in the roadway trying to figure which way the signal was coming from.

"That way," Dean called, jerking a thumb in the right direction.

"You have an idea how to make this go down differently?" Sam asked, and Dean noticed a slight hitch in his brother's voice. He didn't know who was more nervous; Sam because he didn't know what he was getting into, or himself, because he did.

"No hesitation. Shoot the woman on sight. I saw her last time, but didn't know about the shotgun. She got the drop on me." Dean glared at his brother. "And if you ever tell Dad that, I'll tell him about your show tune fixation."

"Show tunes?" Sam paled. "Dude, I only did that one production of _Oklahoma_ in college. Jess talked me into it."

Dean rolled his eyes. "Suuuuure."

Sam glared at him. "So we head straight for the house?"

"Yup. I don't want to give it a chance to drag you off again," Dean said, thinking out loud.

They gathered the supplies from the trunk and trudged into the field. Immediately that same feeling of a hush falling washed over them and Dean felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle. They were idiots. They'd been idiots last time and they were doubly so now. But they also had no choice. They were on a road to nowhere until they killed the woman holding them here.

In only a few minutes they stepped out of the corn into the little clearing surrounding the house. Sam and Dean stood side by side, trying to see anything out of the ordinary.

"Where is she?" Sam whispered. "I thought she was supposed to be on the porch."

"She was," Dean scowled.

"She… I…"

Sam made an odd choking sound and Dean turned just in time to see his brother turn his gun to use like a club and slam the butt into his face.

_Sam, the psychic ghost magnet_. The thought floated through his mind, seeing the angry mask covering his brother's usually gentle features.

Dean crumbled to the ground, the misery of the pain in his head blocking out almost everything else. The world came sharply into focus, however, as he felt Marigold being kicked out of his hand and then saw the glint of moonlight on the barrel of Sam's gun as he stood over him. Great, the Boy Wonder was possessed again. And armed.

One shot, followed quickly by two more.

"I told you not to come back on my property, boy," Sam said, bending over him, his voice not quite his own. "I warned you."

Dean felt the blood gurgling up from his damaged lungs and coughed involuntarily. Couldn't breathe, his mind began to panic. He couldn't breathe. His eyesight was narrowing to only what was visible directly above him.

Suddenly Sam stood up and started away from him, toward the porch he thought. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. Heard a loud popping noise. Shotgun, he thought distantly. Just as his vision died, he saw Sam fall next to him.

"Sorry, Dean," he heard, as the world went dark.

* * *

_A little sadistic of me… Poor Dean. I'll try to be nicer to him tomorrow. Unless you like my being mean to him…_


	3. Chapter 3

**Feels like Midnight**

Chapter 3

_Oh all right, I'll let Sam do the talking today. He does like to talk. And talk and talk and talk.

* * *

_

Dean made a sound like he was drowning, half-gasping, half coughing.

Sam jumped and let the paper drop slightly so he could see Dean over the top. The sight before him made him throw the paper aside. Dean had a hand clenched in the fabric of his shirt. He was white as a sheet and he was holding himself like it hurt to breathe, his clenched hand over his heart. He brought his other hand up to his head and laid it carefully against his temple. He had a split lip and bruises blooming around his nose and one eye.

"Dean?" He didn't get a response. His brother coughed and bent double nearly putting his face in his half-eaten sandwich. Sam shoved the plate out of the way. "Dean," he said again, more urgently this time.

"A minute, S-Sam. Give me a m-minute," Dean wheezed.

Sam turned toward the waitress and had just opened his mouth to ask for an ambulance when he heard, "No. No ambulance." At least that's what he thought it was. Dean's jaw was clenched so tightly, he could hardly understand him.

Sam shifted out of the booth and moved to the other side to perch next to his brother. He laid a hand on his back and nearly removed it when Dean flinched.

"Dean?" He waited several seconds and still didn't get an answer. "Dean!"

"I hear you," Dean said, breathing through his nose, trying to slow himself down. "S'ok. Gonna be ok." Sam wasn't sure if his brother was talking to him or to himself.

"Are you sure you don't want an ambulance? I… I didn't think that thing hit you that hard," Sam grimaced, guilt washing over him. "You might have internal injuries. It threw you against that post pretty hard." Dean must have been hurt far more than he had let on. But the bruises and the split lip, those were new. And he was grabbing his chest. He'd hit his back against the post. What in the world was going on?

Dean finally raised his head and opened his eyes, eyes bright with pain, Sam noted. Dean took one more breath and then blew it out through his mouth slowly. "Not the zombie. The Clampetts. The Clampetts from hell. You don't remember?"

"Remember what?" Sam asked worriedly. "We just got here a few minutes ago. You haven't even finished your food."

Dean groaned and Sam saw several of the men at the counter turn to look at them.

"You don't remember anything?" Dean slowly raised his eyes to meet his brother's. "The house in the clearing. Sweet little Elly May with the big nasty shotgun? Nothing ringing a bell?"

Sam frowned, warning bells going off about head injuries. "What are you talking about, Dean? We haven't been to any house. That old lady lived in a trailer."

"Not her, Jethro. The other woman. She shot you," Dean said, glaring, anger rising to the surface.

"Uhh… no," Sam said, starting to get angry himself, though he wasn't sure why other than that Dean was getting angry. "The old lady tried to get us arrested for stomping on her flowers on the way to the shed. No shooting involved. Not even from the nice cops who escorted us off and told us not to come back."

Dean sat back, but stiffened when his shoulders made contact with the back of the booth. He brought his hand back up to massage his head and Sam noticed the heavy bruising on his wrist.

"How did you do that?"

"Don't worry about it," Dean exhaled again slowly. "Go sit back on your side. We need to talk and you're giving me a crick in my neck looking at you."

"Dean, you're going to fall over if I move," Sam said lowly. "You look like Quasimodo you're so hunched." Dean immediately forced himself to sit up, his face betraying nothing and Sam scowled. It was his own fault for telling Dean how worn he looked. His brother would hurt himself more just to prove how not hurt he was.

"Listen, Esmeralda… unless you're planning on dating me, move your ass to the other side. And let me say right now you're way too needy and not nearly pretty enough."

"Dean," Sam said in exasperation.

"Sam. Ass. _Away_." He pointed to the other side of the booth.

Sam tried to ignore the gruff tone. An injured Dean was not a pleasant person to spend an evening with. "Fine. Jerk. See if I call you an ambulance."

Sam looked up and caught the waitress' eye, motioning for her to bring the check, but Dean immediately waved her back. "No hurry. Trust me. We're not going anywhere any time soon."

* * *

"You're serious?" Sam asked, dumbfounded.

"My pounding headache tells me it's very true."

"I shot you?" Sam asked again. His heart constricted painfully. _He'd killed him_. Sam thought of his gun sitting in the trunk and it nearly made him ill.

"Yup," Dean said casually, like it didn't really matter.

"Dean, I'm… so… I wouldn't…" How do you say I'm sorry I _killed_ you? Hallmark didn't have anything for that. _No one_ had anything for that.

"It's all right, Sammy," Dean smiled and if it weren't his brother, he'd have said he was being kind. "It wasn't you." The implication, of course, was that last time it had been. Though he refused to talk about it, Sam knew how much it still hurt Dean to think of the asylum. With time and distance, his brother had forgiven him… to a point. This shooting apparently didn't rankle like that had.

"Thanks. I think." This whole situation was a disaster of monumental proportions. First the zombie fiasco and now Dean was, literally, dying to get them out of here. The scary thing was that if Dean was right they couldn't leave until they'd fixed it. It was well past dark. They had no library they could visit and a quick check of the laptop showed they had no internet connection, nothing. They were on their own. The other scary thing was that not only was Dean's mind remembering, but so was his body. Dean… well he wasn't looking good. He didn't realize it, but he was starting to hunch forward again against the pain in his chest.

"Ok," Sam said, thinking out loud, "Why are you remembering everything and not me? You said we switched places this time. I should be remembering and you should have forgotten."

"No clue," Dean said, and Sam had the uncomfortable feeling he didn't really have the energy to say more than that.

Sam motioned toward the waitress again, waving her over. "You from around here?" he asked.

"Born and raised," she smiled, ripping their ticket from her booklet and setting it on the table.

"You ever heard of anything strange happening around here? A little house about a half mile up the road?"

The woman's eyes flew to his and the smile faded from her face. "That's not funny."

Dean finally looked up and focused on her. "Wasn't supposed to be," he said, no trace of his usual detached amusement showing. Of all things, he looked… interested. Sam supposed dying was enough to get even Dean's attention.

"My family used to live there," she said flatly.

Sam patted the seat next to him and scooted over. The waitress cast an embarrassed glance over her shoulder, then sat just barely on the edge of the seat.

"Can you tell us what happened?" Dean asked, and as always Sam was amazed at how much kindness his battle-scarred brother could put into his voice. It was a rare view into the Dean who might have been, a Dean who had been raised by a mother who loved him, who didn't know about the monsters. It was also the Dean who would unknowingly bare his soul because he was asking someone to do the same. "Please," he added.

She looked at Dean, studying him, trying to see beneath the surface, completely oblivious to his damaged features.

"We know there was a… shooting," Dean prompted. Sam knew that he didn't want to use the word murder. The woman was already skittish. Again the waitress studied Dean intently, remaining silent until Sam wanted to cough or drop something, anything to cause some movement.

Dean only returned her gaze, steady and relaxed. A good hunter knew how to wait. Sam doubted the waitress even knew anyone else was in the room.

"You were just a little girl. Were you there?" Dean asked quietly.

The waitress nodded.

"What happened?" he asked again.

"My sister was older than I was." She cleared her throat and began tapping the pen she held against the table, going from skittish to agitated. Sam carefully blanked his expression. Dean, he noticed, was going for distant, but sympathetic. "I… I knew she had a boyfriend. He'd come around late at night and Sis would sneak out the window. Daddy caught him one night sneaking up to the house. He'd… he'd warned him to stay away…" The waitress looked at them both, pain written on her features.

"Is there more?" Dean asked softly. "We need to know. We… we think we saw something in that field."

"That house was torn down years ago," the woman said, irritation replacing agitation. "It's been plowed over. Nothing but a cornfield now."

"Please," Dean urged again. "Just tell us what happened."

Her face clouded in anger. "Daddy shot him. That's what happened. And then," she hissed furiously, "my sister went crazy. She got Daddy's shotgun out of his room and shot him when he came back to the house. She shot _herself_ after that. That's what happened. That what you needed to know? Did one of these old fools put you up to this?" She stabbed a finger toward the men sitting at the counter. "They think it's funny bringing up that night?"

"No," Dean said and put a calming hand over hers where it sat on the table. Sam knew just how much it cost his brother to purposely break his personal space rules. "They don't think it's funny. They haven't said a word," Dean soothed.

"That night… I… I just thought that if I could get here… If I could just get to the diner, someone could help me." Again she angrily looked behind her to the counter at the men all fixedly studying their coffee.

"Thank you for your help," Dean said sincerely.

"Yes, thank you for telling us," Sam added, also using his voice to soothe the woman's ruffled feathers. "Something happened to us in that field. We're just trying to figure out a way to make it right."

The waitress made an angry huffing noise and stood, although she seemed slightly mollified. "Well unless you're miracle workers, there's no making it right. Nothing but disaster has ever come of being in that field."

"You're telling me," Dean frowned.

Sam pulled several bills from his pocket and handed them to her. It was no doubt more than they owed, but he didn't mind. Even though she wouldn't remember the tip next time, the waitress was their only lead if the situation went bad again. "Thanks for the advice," Sam said earnestly. He might not remember next time, but Dean would.

"No, thank you," she said, pocketing the money and already moving away. "You boys come back now."

Dean's head snapped up so fast Sam winced. It had to have hurt him, though Dean was fighting not to let it show.

"She keeps saying that," Dean muttered. "I wish she'd knock it off. It's giving me the creeps."

"You're lucky she'll still talk to us. You look like you were in a bar fight and lost."

"Not even close," Dean coughed and clutched at his chest again. "I was suckered in by a chick and then you got yourself all possessed again. So... two chicks really." He gave him a lopsided grin.

Sam grimaced. "Great… I shot you again and I can't even remember it this time. So you get to hold it against me and I don't get the pleasure of real guilt."

"Oh don't worry," Dean assured him. "I'll make sure you feel plenty guilty. You cause me any more grief, I'm gonna call…"

Sam raised an eyebrow. "Who? Dad? Cause he'll just yell at you for getting _me_ shot."

Dean sat back in the booth, suddenly deflated, and Sam was instantly sorry he'd said it. For just a second, so fleeting he could have missed it, pain crossed his brother's face and Sam knew it was not physical. That their father still held the Shtriga hurting him against Dean, yet couldn't even be bothered to call when Dean was _dying_… It infuriated Sam, but it was nonetheless true. Dean didn't need to be reminded about how little their father seemed to care for his welfare.

"Sorry," Sam said, which seemed totally inadequate.

"Never be sorry for the truth," Dean sighed again and rubbed absentmindedly at his chest. Like everything else that hurt Dean, he simply accepted it. It broke Sam's heart to think, deep down, his brother didn't feel entitled to… well anything… Not consideration or kindness or even fair play… Not even from his own father. Dean didn't hold it against their father that he'd just left him without a word, that he hadn't checked on them when they were practically begging for his help. Dean didn't hold it against him, but Sam did. He might hold it against their father enough for Dean too.

"All right," Dean sat up a little straighter and it seemed to help his breathing. "What are we going to do? My ideas keep getting us shot."

"I think the problem was that we were working with only part of the story," Sam decided.

"So now we've got it. Two murders and one suicide."

They both looked up, hearing a man clear his throat. He was wearing bib overalls and a ball cap with a seed company logo printed on it. "I… I couldn't help overhearing."

Sam frowned, but motioned for the man to continue.

The man leaned over, putting his hands flat on the table. "Please," he said urgently. "You have to help us!"

* * *

_Hmm… that was a little longer than expected. Sam really does like to talk a lot. This is supposed to be action/adventure. I'll try to tone it down for next time. Less with the talk, more with the smite._


	4. Chapter 4

**Feels like Midnight**

_Such kind reviewers you are! Gives me the warm-fuzzies._

Chapter Four

* * *

"You have to help us," the man insisted. "I've been listening. You know more than any of the others. There has to be something you can do."

The man was nearly wild-eyed and Sam had to fight the urge to back farther into the booth.

"Just what do you think we can do for you?" Dean asked levelly and Sam noted his tone was not nearly as conciliatory as it had been toward the waitress.

"Look, you're not the only ones stuck here," the old farmer said a trifle too loudly, then looked nervously over his shoulder.

"Harold Turpin!"

The man spun on his heels and backed away from the booth.

The waitress marched toward them, hands on her hips. "Are you bothering these boys? Didn't your mama teach you any better manners than that?"

"Sorry," the man said, hanging his head. "I was just… just…"

"You were just about to go home," she said, iron in her tone.

"Yes," the man nodded. "Of course. I'll…" he suddenly looked completely defeated. "I'll be back tomorrow." His eyes traveled to the counter. "See you fellows then."

Several of the men on the stools at the counter waved, their eyes more intent on their friend than was strictly necessary or even normal. Sam noted several gazes straying in their direction, then the men turned back to the counter.

Sam had the feeling their most important lead was about to walk out the door. "We should get going too, Dean," Sam said. He put out a hand to help Dean rise and knew just how badly his brother was feeling when he accepted the help without comment.

Dean paled and swayed slightly when he stood and Sam kept a steadying hand on his elbow.

"I'll be fine," Dean whispered, just loud enough for him to hear. "Don't let that guy leave without us."

Sam frowned at the 'I'll _be_ fine' instead of 'I _am_ fine.' If Dean was admitting he wasn't doing so well, then it might be even worse than Sam thought.

"We can just wait here," Sam whispered back. "Give you a chance to rest."

Dean shook his head instantly. "I… You wanna drive?"

"Sure." Sam nodded worriedly and accepted the keys Dean handed over. Moving ahead of him, Sam held the door for the man the waitress had called Harold and waited for Dean to follow him outside.

They could tell the man was purposely lagging behind, allowing them to catch up. They waited for the diner door to close behind them and used themselves as a screen.

"Get in the back, Harry," Dean ordered. "Don't look back inside. Just get in and duck down."

Harold didn't even hesitate, practically throwing himself into the car. Pretty spry for an old guy, Sam thought. He looked to be in better shape than Dean at the moment who was moving around to the other side of the car like he was ancient. Sam waited for his brother to settle himself into the passenger seat and then eased the car out of the lot.

"You don't have to drive far," Harold said. "You just have to get out of sight of the diner."

"He's right," Dean nodded. "No matter how far we drive, we'll never get anywhere. Just go ahead and pull over."

Sam took a quick look in the rear-view mirror and saw Harold nod too. "We've all tried to leave. By car, on foot, tried different routes. We can't get away from the diner. After a while we quit trying. We just ended up right back where we were."

"So, it's not just us? You've _all_ been stuck in that diner?" Sam asked and heard a rumble of agreement from the back seat.

"For how long?" Dean demanded.

The farmer shrugged. "It repeats over and over again. Ever since that night."

Sam blinked in astonishment. "You've all been in that diner since the night of the murders?"

"Technically, I suppose it was a few nights after that. This little girl walked in and once she showed up the rest of us couldn't leave."

"Little girl?" Sam frowned.

"Flo," Dean said with a groan, letting his head fall back against the head rest.

"Who?" Harold asked.

"The waitress," Dean growled. "I knew that chick gave me the creeps. She said she had to get to the diner. That was all she could think of that night."

"But she's in her 50's," Sam reminded them.

Harold leaned forward in his seat conspiratorially. "The rest of us haven't changed, but she got older. Don't know why. When she was little, we used to take care of her around the place. Then she started helping out. When she got older, the regular waitress disappeared one night and she took her place."

"You spend all day there," Sam said, still horrified.

"Oh no," the man sat back again. "Starts at sundown. And we stay for a while… I don't rightly know when it starts over. It just does. It's like you blink and you're right back where you started."

"For 50 years," Sam said.

Harold's eyes met Sam's in the mirror. "All I can say is that I'm real tired of diner food."

"So what do you think we can do?" Dean asked.

"Well, you're doing better than anyone else."

"What do you mean?"

"You remember," the man said with certainty. "That puts you ahead of everyone else that's managed to get themselves caught in our little web."

"There have been others?"

"Oh yeah," he laughed, though without any real humor. "Every once in a while a strange car will drive in. They stay for a while and then one day they just don't come back."

"Any idea why?"

"Nope."

"If we manage to stop this, what does that mean for you?" Dean asked, clearly curious.

"Well…" Harold sat back in his seat. "Best case scenario… I'm guessing, we'll die."

"Pardon me for saying so, but how is that a best case scenario?" Dean asked, clearly appalled. "I've been killed twice in as many days and have no intention of letting it happen again."

"Son," the man said kindly and Sam could tell Dean didn't particularly appreciate the slightly condescending tone, "we've all been locked in that place for years and years. If we're not dead already, we should be. We were old codgers back then and now… well I don't rightly know what we are."

"What do you know about her?" Sam asked. "The waitress."

The old man made a sound and Dean started to turn, wanting to look their passenger in the face. Sam heard the barest hitch in his brother's breathing before Dean remained where he was, settling once again for the mirror in the visor. "Did she die that night too?" he asked.

"I don't know if she's dead or even if she's the real reason we're all stuck there," Harold brushed his hand in frustration over a few stubbles of beard. "We all knew about what happened at the house. It was big news in such a small community. No one knew about the little girl though. She still hadn't been found… not until she walked into the diner on her own."

"So it _was_ her sister who killed herself."

"Yup."

"Does she ever talk about that night?"

"Never," the man answered. His hand stopped in mid-motion where he was still scrubbing at his beard and his eyes widened.

"Do you know why?" Sam followed the man's line of sight and his heart nearly stopped.

"Because I don't like people in my business," the waitress said, leaning in the window beside Harold and bodily yanking him out of the car. In only a few seconds the woman dragged the farmer, who was twice her size, into the corn and they were gone.

* * *

_Just a little chapter to get them from point A to point B. Got to get them back into that field…_


	5. Chapter 5

**Feels like Midnight**

_Thanks so much for the kind reviews. Throw the monkey a peanut and this monkey will play that piano like there's no tomorrow._

Chapter Five

* * *

"Ok, Sam. We're going to go back into that cornfield, but I swear… If you shoot me again…"

Sam just shook his head, already throwing the door open and heading for the trunk.

"Dude, if you're not going to promise, then you don't get a gun," Dean barked. "You can just take your own freaking chances. If she shoots you, she shoots you. You're not going to remember it anyway."

"How about we try not to get shot, huh?" Sam suggested.

"Yeah, it's worked out great for us so far." Dean groaned and hauled himself up and out of the car with some effort, hissing as his damaged ankle yet again let him know how much it did not like carrying his sorry carcass around. "Hand me, M… my shotgun," he ordered.

Sam handed it over without comment as well as a flashlight. "You sure you're up to this?" he frowned.

"Ready as I'll ever be," Dean said honestly. "Another round or two and I'm not sure I'll be any help to you at all. We've got to end this. _Soon_." It killed him to admit it, but there was no getting around it. Sam needed backup and he was perilously close to not being able to provide it. His chest still felt like it was being squeezed from the inside out, sapping what little energy he had left.

Sam nodded and headed into the field. Dean followed, though his stride was not nearly as smooth. Almost as soon as they stepped into the corn, they were surrounded by the hush that Dean had grown to expect, but he saw Sam shiver like something crawled over his skin. Before the feeling even had a chance to pass, they heard the shots, one and then two more close together.

"I think Harold may have just got his wish," Dean whispered.

Sam actually looked back and glared at him, his expression just visible in the moonlight.

"What?" Dean just stared back at him. "It's not like it's permanent! He'll be fine in an hour or two."

"You think," Sam still glared. "Unless we figure this out and he stays dead."

"Well that's what he wanted!"

"Dean!"

"Oh, stop looking at me like I just killed your puppy," Dean waved his shotgun in the direction of the noise. "Work to do… Remember? Daddy's about to get himself wasted. Move it."

Sam gave him one last scathing glance and turned to head back in the right direction. They pushed through the corn, the leaves slapping at their faces until finally, almost without warning, they walked out into the clearing.

Dean pulled Sam back, seeing the woman on the porch step down, her shotgun in hand. But she was not looking at them. An older man was standing in the yard over the remains of poor Harold. The man still had his gun in hand as he looked down at his victim, whispering the words Dean had heard on his last visit. Dean was quite certain he preferred this vantage point to his last.

The ghost's image flickered as she walked down the porch steps. The movement seemed to catch her father's attention and he turned to look at her. As soon as he turned, the woman raised the heavy shotgun and fired point blank into her father's chest.

The man was thrown backwards, crumpling to the ground beside his own victim. His daughter came to stand over him and as Dean had thought, it was indeed a scream that came from her lips and not the whispered words his failing hearing had caught. "It's all your fault! It's your fault he's dead!" The woman dropped to her knees beside her father.

Dean raised his gun to fire. If the sister managed to kill herself too then the whole thing would repeat and they would be right back where they had started. They had to stop the cycle. He made a mental note, however, that if they did have to do this again, he should tell poor Harold to stay at the diner.

Just as he pulled the trigger, Flo appeared in front of him and knocked the gun to one side making the shot go wide.

"Don't you dare shoot my sister!" the woman screamed.

"She's going to do it herself in a minute!" Dean shouted back.

Flo's face crumbled. "You have to stop her," she begged. "Night after night… she won't listen to me… She doesn't understand."

Sam and Dean both spared a look toward the woman still kneeling on the ground, completely oblivious to them, her wrenching sobs carrying in the night air.

"What doesn't she understand?" Sam asked.

The woman in her waitress uniform flickered and for just a second they saw a young girl, a child really, in a nightgown. The image flickered again and Flo reappeared. "Please… I don't want to be alone anymore… I can't… If she leaves…"

"What happens after this?" Dean demanded, once again glancing at the other sister. They were almost out of time and he opened the shotgun to reload. "You said you went to the diner."

Flo shook her head and once again the long-dead girl momentarily took her place. "I tried so hard… but the corn… it was so tall… I got lost in the fields… I couldn't find the road. I couldn't get to the diner. I knew if I could just get there everything would be all right. I would be safe. Daddy said if anything ever went wrong I should go there for help."

"But you didn't make it," Dean stated flatly. "Not until three days later." _Not until you died_, he added silently. A child who got lost in the fields, who could find no way out of the never-ending labyrinth; they probably hadn't found the body until harvest time, or it might have taken a hunter coming across the body during the winter or the following spring.

"I only knew I had to get to the diner." Fat tears streamed down her face.

And there she had stayed, Dean thought. But she'd kept everyone else there too. And she'd forced her family to replay the night of the murders over and over, hoping that she could somehow change the outcome and somehow save herself from a slow, lonely death in the fields.

"You have to stop her," Flo said again. "I _know_ you understand. That's why I picked you. _Make her stay with me_," she pleaded.

Dean fought not to swear. What was it with ghosts reading his mind? His apparently very _needy_ mind. He so had to have a good talk with himself about that. So he liked having a buddy. And Sam had left him. Then Dad had ditched him and he'd gone to get Sam back. Was it a crime to not like being alone? Was it _unreasonable_ to want someone you could trust at your back? For crying out loud, you harbor a _teeny_ _tiny_ bit of co-dependence and the ghosts latched on to you like you were a freaking life raft.

"Dean!" Sam said and his urgent tone drew Dean's attention back. The sister was raising the shotgun and placing the barrel under her chin.

"Make her understand she can't leave me," Flo begged and then disappeared, reappearing kneeling in front of her homicidal/suicidal sister.

Oh, he'd make her understand all right. Dean raised his shotgun again and took aim. Instantly he felt invisible fingers wrap around his ankles. He was jerked off of his feet and hit the ground hard, the pain in his chest screaming back to life as his breath left in a whoosh. He ordered himself to hold on to Marigold as he was dragged feet first toward the two women.

He was seeing stars. He couldn't breathe, couldn't get his lungs to inflate. Sam yelled something, but it was too far away. Couldn't breathe. Chest hurt too bad. Note to self,next time he should really shoot Flo before he left the diner.

* * *

_More tomorrow. Dean's night isn't nearly over…_


	6. Chapter 6

**Feels like Midnight**

_Almost there… Thanks for bearing with me._

Chapter Six

* * *

"DEAN!" Sam leapt forward as his brother was dragged away from him, faster than he could run. Invisible hands seemed to grab Dean, who appeared barely conscious, and lift him so that he was sitting on his knees. The invisible hands placed him carefully, sitting him in the exact position of the woman still kneeling and sobbing, shotgun beneath her chin, sitting him over her, _into her_, until it was like one image, superimposed over the other. 

Sam skidded to a halt beside him as Dean sucked in a ragged, painful gasp of air, though his eyes remained distant and blank, the dead woman's face flickering over his.

"Dean?" he asked tentatively.

He watched in horror as Dean raised his own sawed-off shotgun and placed the barrel beneath his chin, mirroring the ghostly image of the woman still superimposed over him.

Sam snatched the weapon from Dean's hands, surprised at how easily he gave it up. It was only rock salt, but double barrels of rock salt at that range would kill him just as dead.

Dean's hands fell loose and then rose again, grasping the woman's shotgun, placing his hands around it, its barrel beneath his chin, its butt resting on the ground, grasping it as if it were real. Sam snatched at the ghostly weapon too only to have his hands pass right through it. He momentarily considered shooting them both, Dean and the ghost, but the thought was more than he could stomach. He couldn't do that again and Dean was already hurt. Time, he just had to give Dean some time. Dean could talk his way out of anything.

"Convince her!" the waitress commanded, kneeling in from of Dean/her sister. "Make her stay!" she cried, a child begging for someone to care for her, save her, for someone not to leave her alone in the dark.

Sam knew that it wasn't the other three, but the child who was keeping them all here. It was the waitress who would not let anyone leave, who had doomed them all to repeat this night over and over until it was made right.

As much as it hurt, Sam understood why the waitress had chosen Dean. His brother rarely spoke of it, but Sam knew Dean would identify with the child's need, her fear. The need to keep his family together, his fear of abandonment; they were just as much a part of his brother as his brazen disregard of authority. The child's father was gone. Their own father had left without a word. The girl had no one left and she just wanted her sister to stay, not unlike what Dean had asked of Sam. She had picked Dean; his own brave, stalwart Dean who needed only to share his screwed up life to make it bearable.

"Dean?" Sam said again and his voice sounded hoarse even to his own ears.

Dean turned his head slightly to look at him and Sam dropped to his knees so they could be eye to eye. The dead woman's face flickered over Dean's, 'their' hands still holding the ghostly murder weapon. "Dean, can you hear me?"

Dean barely nodded and Sam wanted to weep with relief to see that something of his brother was still present.

"Lily, can you hear me?" the waitress echoed, the three/four forming a triangle where they knelt.

Again Dean/Lily nodded.

"Please listen to him, Lily. He can help us… Please," the waitress sobbed, holding out her arms like she wanted to grab her sister, force the gun from her hands. "Please stay."

What if this time was different, Sam thought, suddenly more horrified, if that were possible. What if what they were doing was breaking the cycle? The suicide was the catalyst for the never ending night. What if dragging Dean into the suicide instead of the murders was changing it? No repeats, no starting again.

Sam tried to grab Dean by the shoulders, move him, shake him, anything, but Dean was an immovable statue.

"Dean, listen," Sam whispered intently. "Just listen to my voice. Don't let her hurt you. I need you to stay with me, ok? You're stronger than she is."

"You're so strong, Lily," the waitress sobbed. "I need you."

Sam saw their hands, the dead woman's superimposed over his brother's, tighten on the gun. "Stay with me, Dean," he said again, an edge of panic coloring his tone. "Don't let her take you."

Life without Dean. It was a concept he didn't even want to have to contemplate. The sight of Dean so calm and collected with a gun shoved under his chin was a terrifying sight to behold. Sam had always had a secret fear of just such a thing happening and the nightmare was playing out in front of him.

It wasn't the loud, overly-emotional, obstinate ones who stormed out of the house like him you had to worry about, the ones who knew themselves to be right and everyone else was an idiot. Like him, they just got angry, left and didn't look back.

It was the quiet ones. The soldiers. The ones who took every loss to heart, but who never spoke about it. The ones who seemed to brush off every insult, but who silently locked away every word as if it just might be true. It was the brother with fears he hid so deeply he hardly dared admit them to himself you had to watch. One more perceived failure, one more loss; that might be all it would take. He was the one you had to worry about coming home one day and finding him dead out in the yard. And the quiet one, who didn't feel _entitled_, would choose the yard because he didn't want to bother anyone to have to clean up the blood and brains in the house. You could just hose down the yard.

"Stay with me, Lily. I'll die without you," his fellow supplicant begged.

"Focus, Dean. I… I can't live without you," Sam pleaded. "Please… Don't let her do this."

Dean/Lily shifted, their hands tightening around the trigger. She was going to do it. She was going to kill herself right in front of her sister and kill Dean while she was at it.

The waitress stood, still sobbing. "I can't convince you. I can never convince you. I thought maybe this time…" she said, as if to herself, her shoulders sagging with loss. "But no more. _I will not die alone_."

Sam blanched, true panic flaring as the woman stepped toward Dean, stepped toward her sister and knelt _into_ them, adding a third layer.

She was changing it. She was changing the story. And that would be all it would take. Sam was sure now. No more repeats. No more never-ending cycle. She was going to end it her own way. The woman/child didn't want to die alone in the fields so she would die with her sister. Tonight they would die together, but they were going to take Dean with them. Permanently. No more do-overs meant a dead Dean would stay dead.

The three knelt together, the two sisters and his brother. The three images flickered and blurred together giving Sam a headache, though he could not look away as the final actor in the trio placed her hands over Dean's and over her sister's.

Sam raised Dean's shotgun, scrambling back so the range wasn't as deadly. His brother would just have to forgive him again.

A shotgun blast filled the night air.

"NO!" Sam let out a strangled cry. He hadn't fired yet. Dean, Lily, the waitress had.

The three fell backward, almost in a fan, the two sisters closer together, their arms and legs tangled, the shotgun lying haphazardly across them. Dean fell back, his arms flung wide, and lay completely still.

Sam crawled forward on all fours, ignoring the tears running down his face. "Dean? Dean, talk to me!" he shouted. There was no blood, no wound. His brother looked deathly pale in the moonlight, but he was whole.

Movement drew Sam's attention and as he watched, the bodies of the two women faded. Next the bodies of the murdered father and Harold disappeared. Finally, the house itself and the clearing vanished and were replaced by row after row of corn, tall, lush, green, 'real' corn.

Sam pushed aside the plants that had appeared, separating him from his brother.

"Dean?" Sam called again. "Come on, man. Stay with me."

Dean still wasn't moving.

Sam looked closer in the bright moonlight.

Dean wasn't breathing.

* * *

_Last chapter tomorrow. Hope this was an interesting enough way to get rid of the ghosts... Don't want to bore you all to death._


	7. Chapter 7

**Feels like Midnight**

_Thanks once again to everyone who has been reading. Last chapter. I'm sure Dean will be glad to be rid of me. I smack him around something terrible…_

Chapter Seven

* * *

Dean wasn't breathing.

No, no, no! Sam's mind was screaming. CPR… ok… he knew CPR. 15 and 2. 15 and 2.

Sam viciously shoved cornstalks out of the way so he could kneel at Dean's side, all the while mentally running through what he needed to do.

Tilt the head back so the air will go in. Pinch his nose shut. Two big breaths like you're blowing up a big balloon. Yes, he could feel the air going in. Sam carefully placed one hand over the other, bracing himself over Dean, the palm of his bottom hand against his breastbone. Arms straight, shoulders directly over your hands, up and down, don't bend your elbows. It's ok if you hear some cracking. Ribs don't like what you're doing. Keep going. 15 times. Two breaths. 15 pumps to the chest. Two breaths like you're blowing up a balloon.

Dean hated balloons.

15 and 2, 15 and 2.

Sam sobbed. His chest burned and his shoulders were starting to shake with exhaustion. Too long. It was taking too long.

When he heard his brother's first harsh gasp Sam fell back in a heap, completely drained. He let out a strangled cry of triumph and lay on his back for several seconds, panting, listening to Dean's rough but wonderful breathing. It was music to his ears. Finally he struggled to sit forward again.

"Dean?"

Dean raised a fumbling hand to his chest. "Y… you sh… shoot me again?"

"No," Sam laughed on a sob. "You did it yourself this time."

"Wh… wha time is it?" he murmured.

Sam frowned in confusion, but pushed the button on his watch. "It's midnight."

Dean clutched a hand in his shirt over his chest. "Supposed to change back at midnight."

"What?" Sam frowned.

"Pumpkin. Supposed to change back."

"Dean?" he asked worriedly. Oxygen deprivation? Dean wasn't making sense. "It won't happen again," Sam assured him. "We… you stopped her. No more repeats."

"Midnight… changes back," Dean insisted, his eyes finally fluttering open. He groaned and brought his hand up to rub his long fingers over his beard-stubbled chin.

Sam fumbled around himself on the ground and found his flashlight where it had fallen. He sat up again on his knees, pointing the light far enough away from Dean so as not to blind him, but close enough so that he could study his brother's strained face.

"Midnight," Dean mumbled, trying to get his eyes to focus. "Didn't change back. That Cinderella's full of crap."

Dean's eyes fluttered shut as he passed out. Sam wearily fell back on the ground and laughed.

* * *

Sam stood and hurried forward as the doctor appeared in the ER waiting room doorway. The doctor gestured for him to come with him and started walking back down the hallway.

"How is he?"

Sam had managed to haul Dean back to the car, discovering that they were in reality only about 10 yards away from the road. Dean had not awakened as he'd manhandled him into the passenger seat and driven him to the nearest hospital. Nor had he awakened as the attendants had pulled him from the vehicle and disappeared with him inside the ER.

"We're making him as comfortable as we can," the doctor said.

"What's wrong with him?"

"Well… He has some cracked ribs, a concussion. His wrist has a small fracture. His shoulder has some damage. We'll be able to tell more about that later. The bruising on his back as well, though it doesn't appear to be anything serious." The doctor frowned. "His chest is badly bruised in a rather strange pattern. You said he was struck by a car?"

Sam nodded. He'd been so preoccupied when he'd brought Dean in, he'd just said the first thing that had come into his head, pathetic explanation though it might be. Some of the injuries were no doubt from the fight with the zombie. It had managed to get hold of Dean and toss him like a ragdoll. The rest though…

The doctor eyed him, his gaze almost accusatory. "The injuries to his chest are like blunt-force trauma, like impact wounds, but not what I would expect from a pedestrian being struck by a vehicle..."

"Is there anything else?" Sam interrupted.

The doctor squared his shoulders. "Yes," he said, disapproval radiating from him. "He has a fractured ankle."

"He broke his ankle?" Sam asked dumbfounded. That had to have happened during one of the earlier rounds and Dean hadn't told him. Dean had walked into that field on a broken ankle. Sam could kick himself for not noticing.

"The most puzzling thing however is a burn."

Sam's jaw actually dropped open. "You've got to be kidding."

"No," the doctor assured him, now more confused than anything else. "He has a burn on his leg about the size of a grapefruit. Any idea how that happened?"

Sam closed his eyes, trying not to let his fury show. When they'd set the old woman's shed on fire to cover the zombie's death… _Crap_. Out of the corner of his eye, he'd seen Dean batting at his trouser leg, almost like he was brushing dirt off his jeans. Dean had quickly changed as soon as they'd made it to the car, claiming he had zombie goo on his pants and he was _not_ going to get it on the upholstery. Sam decided he was going to kill him. He was just going to kill him.

"Can I see him?"

* * *

Dean felt wonderful. He'd felt beyond awful and now he felt just wonderful. He was drugged to the gills, had to be. That was either a good thing or a bad thing.

Sam walked into his room and Dean decided it was probably a bad thing. Sam looked loaded for bear and Dean wasn't sure he could think well enough to keep his mouth shut.

"Your ankle is broken?" Sam said carefully, quietly.

Uh oh. Sam was in his I-want-to scream-at-you-but-we're-in-public mode.

"Hairline, dude," Dean smiled. "They're not even going to cast it."

"And when did that happen?"

Dean shrugged and then grimaced. "Ouch."

"What?"

"Shoulder."

"When did you break your ankle, Dean?" Sam asked patiently, almost.

"Before."

"Any reason you didn't tell me?" Sam was still using his careful tone.

"Well, pardon me," Dean rolled his eyes. "You were with me when I did it. I just kinda forgot to bring it up again. Am I supposed to keep track of everything you do and don't know?"

Sam narrowed his eyes and Dean smiled again. Yeah, he kept track of everything. It was what he did. Sam knew it too… but he couldn't prove it.

"The burn?"

"I'm pretty sure you were there for that too," Dean nodded. "That old lady came at you with a garden weasel." He laughed at the memory. "Shoulda seen the look on your face, dude. _Priceless_." Oh, yeah… Definitely drugged. His chest didn't hurt when he laughed.

Sam just shook his head and sighed, the picture of longsuffering.

"I take it we saved the day?" Dean asked more seriously.

"The diner's gone. I checked while I was waiting. It closed some time in the early 70s. So basically, everybody died but you. Does that count?"

"Ghosts gone?" He waited for Sam to nod. "Good. Then it counts."

Dean had a sudden memory… the sensation of the barrel of the gun pressed up under his chin… the shot.

"Dean." Sam was abruptly standing over him. "Dean, _breathe_. I mean it. You gotta breathe. Stay with me."

Freaking ghosts. Dean tried to focus on his breathing. In and out. No scaring the little brother. "S'ok," Dean said, seeing Sam look toward the door. "Don't… don't call the doctor."

"You sure?" Sam asked worriedly.

Dean brought a shaking hand up to brush over his face. Yup. Still there. For just a second… The sensation of it _not_ being there… _Holy crap_. That was certainly a memory he could have lived without. He closed his eyes, fighting the urge to be sick. Maybe the drugs weren't as good as he'd thought. All of a sudden, his head ached. His face hurt.

"You want to talk about it?"

Dean opened his eyes again and focused on his brother, a mocking grin appearing. "Yes, Sam. By all means. Let's talk about my possession by two completely mental suicidal females who, despite my best efforts, managed to force me into blowing my own head off."

"I take it that's a no?" Sam glared.

"Dude, will you sit down," Dean waved him back. "You're giving me the fidgets… too much hovering."

"If you'll quit passing out, I'll quit hovering," Sam quirked his mouth up at one side. He found a chair and pulled it close to the bed.

Dean noted that when he sat down his brother was still taller than he was. How fair was that? Though he supposed he could have been a whole head shorter right now. Dean decided maybe he should be grateful for small favors.

How did he tell Sam what had happened? How did he explain how it had felt? She… it… While they'd been _together_… The loss… the isolation… He'd tried to talk to her. It had felt like years while they'd knelt there. It had taken everything he had to keep her from pulling the trigger, to try and make her look at her sister, to make her understand she was needed. All the while Sam had been staring at him, his pleading eyes boring into them.

When the waitress, Lucy he now knew, had joined them, it had all unraveled. Lucy, too, had been making one last effort to convince her sister to stay, adding her voice to Dean's. It had been impossible though. Dean had had only a few minutes. The child had been trying for fifty years. She had even resorted to changing herself, appearing older to try and convince her sister to listen. Children had to listen to adults.

The child's last thoughts had been that it was a lost cause. All was lost. Her family was doomed. She had to save herself and she had to save them.

Hopelessly trapped in her own past and oblivious to her sister's pleas, Lily's last thought had been that she'd killed her father and there would have to be a trial. She couldn't put her sister through that. She had to save her.

The problem, of course, had been that Dean had understood. And at that instant, when each sister had found a way to save the other, Dean's only thought had been that this was going to repeat forever unless he did something. He couldn't put Sam through that. He had to save him.

And that thought… that shared belief that there was only one way to save the person they loved… that was all it had taken for them to pull the trigger.

"What are thinking about?" Sam asked barely above a whisper.

"Dying." Dean's eyes widened. Whoa. That was not supposed to have come out. Loose, uh… drugged lips, sink ships. Sam was sitting back in his chair, waiting to see if there was more.

"Anything in particular?" he asked when Dean didn't continue.

"Can't say as how I cared for it," Dean replied with a yawn. "Definitely wouldn't recommend it."

"I see."

Dean narrowed his already drooping eyes. Sam probably did at that. The jerk was too smart by half.

Dean's eyes closed of their own accord. He heard Sam stand and walk back toward him. He felt Sam ruffle a hand through his hair.

"I thought you'd left me," Sam said quietly.

"Doesn't feel so good, does it?" Dean murmured, briefly jostled when Sam's hand in his hair stopped moving and then was removed. _Oops_, his drugged mind thought. Telling the truth was definitely an adverse side effect of whatever they'd given him.

Dean forced his sleep-heavy eyes to open and cleared his suddenly dry throat. "Sam, you don't have to stay with me you know." His eyes met Sam's disturbingly intent gaze. After what they'd been through that night, they both knew he wasn't just talking about the hospital stay. "I'll understand."

"Go to sleep, Dean," Sam whispered. "I'll be here when you wake up."

Dean let out a bone weary sigh and closed his eyes again. Brothers and sisters… Complicated things. They made his head hurt. Literally.

Just as he was drifting off he heard Sam shuffle his feet.

"You scared me, Dean."

"Sorry, Sammy," Dean mumbled, "Won't do it again."

* * *

_Well, I'll let poor Dean get some rest now. Hope you enjoyed it._


End file.
